the tired beer talks
the tired black nights
the faces of people
of family or friends
the **** behind the car
the fires where all you
can see is eyes
the empty cans
the shoeless feet
the people talking to
people
the relationships and
the alliances

on concrete patios
in the woods
near lakes
or out in the deserts

we are there
listening to grasshoppers
play their sad songs
who sometimes get
so loud that we yell at each other
and laugh at the top
of our lungs
trying to fill up
the black night
and remind those
bugs we’re not dead
yet

‘Twas a normal Sunday morning
In the town of Maryville
No person knew what was to come
Or whom that man would ****.

Rev’rend Winters read his sermon
And preached ‘bout happiness
They heard a pop, and then a click;
A shot went through his chest.

The gunman got the bible first
The book turned to confetti
The congregation was aghast
They thought this skit was petty.

Then they learned the awful truth
Their reverend was shot dead
Two men dragged the murderer down
To ensure he had not fled.

‘Twas a tragic day in Maryville
For those who made it out
They keep those who didn’t in their prayers
And for that there is no doubt.